


nothing but time

by kaci3PO



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 3x05 fill-in-the-blank fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaci3PO/pseuds/kaci3PO
Summary: The last time they did this had been hurried and frantic, three emotion-drunk assholes fumbling in the dark. It had beengoodfumbling, yes, but Eliot was absolutely sure it could've been better if they'd taken their time. After a year in Fillory working on the mosaic, it feels like the two of them have nothingbuttime now, at least for tonight; if he's being given a second chance at this, Eliot fully intends to do the thingproperly.





	nothing but time

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I lied. _Now_ I'm going back to my self-imposed writing exile.

Eliot isn't expecting it when Quentin kisses him on the mosaic. But that's the thing about Quentin: some days Eliot feels like he knows everything about him, like he could predict Quentin's next move a thousand times over even without divination magic, and yet Quentin somehow always finds ways to surprise him.

When they pull apart, Quentin gives him a sheepish sort of smile and for just a moment, Eliot thinks he might be willing to abandon the quest and give up magic forever if only he could know what's going on in Quentin's head.

Eliot has wanted Quentin more or less since the day they met. He's always been upfront about that, because how fucking cliche would it be, to be that gay guy who has the hots for his best male friend but keeps it a secret and pines like a lovestruck teenager in a godawful romcom? Eliot Waugh does not  _ pine _ . He makes his intentions clear and then carries on because he does not have  _ time _ for pining. He's the god damn High King of Fillory.  _ He has shit to do _ .

But Quentin? He's always been impossible to read on  _ this  _ particular front. When Eliot had woken up to find Quentin and Margo making out more or less  _ on top of him _ back at Brakebills, Margo was the one who pushed Quentin into his arms. It hadn't been the first time they'd shared a cute boy in bed, but it was the first time that neither of them had any clue how said cute boy would take the addition of a third person into the mix.

The first few hesitant kisses had Eliot sure that Quentin had never been with a man before, but that assumption hadn't lasted for very long. He'd had too much dick-sucking technique for it to be his first time. But he'd never shown any interest after, and Eliot couldn't tell if it was because of the guilt over hurting Alice or if he just wasn't interested. 

So he can't help smiling as he leans back in, deepening the kiss and cupping Quentin's face with one hand. He's waited so long for some sign that Quentin is aware of what's between them.

The last time they did this had been hurried and frantic, three emotion-drunk assholes fumbling in the dark. It had been  _ good _ fumbling, yes, but Eliot was absolutely sure it could've been better if they'd taken their time. After a year in Fillory working on the mosaic, it feels like the two of them have nothing  _ but _ time now, at least for tonight; if he's being given a second chance at this, Eliot fully intends to do the thing  _ properly _ .

Quentin's hands settle on his hips, squeezing gently when Eliot deepens the kiss. The night is warm and the taste of the mulled Fillorian wine they toasted with lingers on Quentin's tongue as Eliot tilts his head back for a better angle. Eliot is still taller than Quentin, even sitting down, so he guides Quentin into his lap to make up the difference. Much better.

Quentin breaks the kiss, out of breath, and presses his forehead into Eliot's chest. Eliot can feel the soft  _ huff _ of Quentin's breath against his skin as he lets his fingers curl into the hair at the base of Quentin's neck.

"Q, what do you want?" He strokes his thumb across Quentin's cheekbone absentmindedly. Gods, even a year of only each other for company hasn't made him want Quentin any less.

"I just—" Quentin grips Eliot by the hips and pulls himself further into Eliot's lap. He's half-hard already, pressed against Eliot's stomach with his legs wrapped around Eliot's lower back. "Jesus, El."

"C'mon, Quentin," Eliot murmurs. "I'm telekinetic, not telepathic."

Quentin huffs out a quick laugh and presses their foreheads together. "D'you wanna fuck me?" he asks, like he thinks it's even a question.

"Since the day we met," Eliot answers immediately. "You offering?"

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Jesus. Yes,  _ obviously _ ."

Eliot makes a mental note to remind Quentin later that his interest in Eliot has been anything  _ but _ obvious up until now, but he has better things to do at the moment. There are spells for this sort of thing, spells Eliot has had memorized since before he'd even mastered Popper 1. If they were back on Earth, he might take his time and do this the old fashioned way, just for the pleasure of watching Quentin writhe as Eliot worked him open with his fingers. But that's for a world that has actual lube; here in Fillory the best they could manage is cooking oil, and that shit's barely passable to jerk off with. Besides, what's the point of being in a timeline that still has magic if he's not going to take advantage?

"Don't freak out," Eliot whispers, and quickly goes through the motions of casting the spell.

"Jesus— fuck!" Quentin gasps. "What the fuck— Eliot!" He smacks Eliot's chest lightly, wide-eyed and panting. "Warn a guy before you...do  _ that _ ."

Eliot grins, shameless, and slides a hand into the back of Quentin's pants, fingers brushing lightly against his now slick and open entrance. "What's the point of magic, if not to facilitate my sex life?" He gives Quentin a quick, placating kiss.

"You're horrible," Quentin informs him, but he's hard against Eliot's thigh.

"And yet  _ you're _ the one who came onto  _ me _ ."

Quentin huffs and tugs his own shirt off before going to work on his pants, so Eliot's pretty sure he's not  _ actually _ all that upset about it.

"If it makes you feel any better," Eliot says as he starts divesting himself of his own clothes, "there's no one else I'd rather be stuck in Fillory doing sex magic with than you."

A light flush rises to Quentin's cheeks. "I can't believe I'm saying this," he says, "but...same."

Eliot's seen Quentin naked dozens of times over the last year. They've been sharing a cottage so ridiculously tiny that the concept of privacy between them lasted barely a week. But this is the first time he's been allowed to really  _ look _ , to take Quentin in and appreciate him properly. He's still half in Eliot's lap, only slightly displaced from their scramble to get naked, and Eliot is so fucking into him that he can't bear to wait another second.

"C'mere," he says, bringing their mouths together again.

Eliot has lusted after a lot of men in his life. He's even had actual emotional connections with a few. But his thing for Quentin has always been something else entirely. A fascination that transcends simple sexual attraction. Maybe it's a side effect of Jane Chatwin looping their lives through forty different timelines. Maybe some part of him has instinctively always known that they were meant to gravitate to each other's orbits.

He hauls Quentin back onto his lap, hands gripping Quentin's hips tightly. He rocks up, rubbing their dicks together and smiling when he elicits a soft groan from Quentin. He lets Quentin grind down against him and slides his hands around to cup Quentin's ass. Quentin gasps into Eliot's mouth and reaches down, fingers curling around Eliot's cock as he maneuvers himself into a better position. Eliot lets him set the pace, forcing himself to stay still until he's fully seated inside Quentin. Even with the spell, it's a tight fit, but Quentin moans loudly into the dark Fillorian night at the slightest shift of Eliot's hips, so he's pretty sure he's not in pain.

"You ever done this before, Q?" Eliot asks. He runs his hands up and down Quentin's back soothingly as Quentin settles against him.

"Once or twice," Quentin answers. "Not in a  _ very _ long time. I  _ told  _ you guys I wasn't a virgin when we met."

Eliot shrugs. "Doesn't mean you've done this in specific." He rocks his hips gently up into Quentin, just once, to make the point.

"Well, I have."

"You'll have to tell me all about it later," Eliot murmurs. "I want  _ all _ the juicy details."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Shut up and fuck me, will you?"

Eliot uses his grip on Quentin's ass to guide him up and back down, pulling him down hard on Eliot's cock on the downstroke. Quentin moans and tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. Eliot licks it and rocks his hips up into Quentin sharply.

They find a rhythm quicker than Eliot would've guessed, him snapping his hips up into Quentin as Quentin rides him fast and hard. Quentin tries to keep kissing him before finally settling for their foreheads pressed together when the pace of their fucking makes kissing impossible.

"Gods, Q," Eliot gasps. "You have no fucking clue how long I've wanted to do this to you."

"Fuck, here—" Quentin grips Eliot by the shoulders and falls back onto the tiles, pulling Eliot down on top of him and wrapping his legs around Eliot's back. "Like this, yeah?" he pants.

Eliot has imagined fucking Quentin in a lot of different ways over the years, but yeah, this one has always been high on the list. He's always wanted to watch Quentin take what Eliot gave, to watch his face as Eliot fucked his brains out. He takes to it with a gusto now, driving into Quentin relentlessly, one hand fisting Quentin's cock between their stomachs.

Quentin looks so good like this, coming apart under him with Eliot's name on his lips. Eliot has never realized before just how much he loves the sound of his own name coming from Quentin.

Quentin comes hard, body shaking and hole clenching at Eliot. Eliot fucks him through it until he reaches his own orgasm, still buried deep inside of Quentin, moaning Quentin's name as he pulses inside him.

He watches in fascination as his come dribbles out of Quentin after he's pulled out, dripping from Quentin's hole onto the tiles. There's something about it that's incredibly sexy, but Eliot cleans it up after only a few moments of indulging himself. It  _ probably  _ wouldn't affect the mosaic magic, but who the fuck knew, with Fillory? Nothing here ever worked the way Eliot thought it would. 

He drops down on his back beside Quentin, chest heaving as he catches his breath. Quentin's hand finds his and he curls their fingers together. "You're really good at that," he murmurs.

Eliot laughs. "Practice makes perfect." The afterglow feels warm and comfortable and Eliot's already getting sleepy.

"We should go to bed," Quentin mumbles, yawning loudly. "Try to get back to the puzzle early in the morning."

It takes the two of them awhile to convince each other of the wisdom of this, both of them too fucked-out to motivate themselves into action. They barely manage to stumble to the bed, pretty much passing out as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Eliot's last thought before sleep is that this should've made things weird between them, if for no other reason than because of the circumstances of the last time they'd slept together. But that's a conversation for tomorrow. Tonight they're alright, and that's good enough 'til morning.


End file.
